


Respect

by civilsmile



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Competence Kink, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilsmile/pseuds/civilsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Soldier is Hydra's incomparable warrior and Mike is an offering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=3682146#cmt3682146) at the hydratrashmeme: 
> 
> One of the Winter Soldier's handlers respects the hell out of him. The Soldier's a deadly killing machine, an amazing tactician, and the ultimate in loyalty to the Cause. Said handler would never _dream_ of raping the Soldier, because that would be disrespectful. If he offers himself up to be fucked _by_ the Soldier, though . . . well that's just showing his respect. Cue handler fucking himself on the Winter Soldier after a mission, dirty talking about how good the Soldier is with a gun, etc.
> 
> Things that I would not object to:  
> \+ The handler leaves most of the Soldier's battle gear on, only dragging his pants down enough to free his cock, and then getting off on all that black leather full of all kinds of dangerous weaponry rubbing up against his body.  
> \+ The handler starting off on top.  
> \+ The Soldier getting with the program at some point and taking charge to flip them over and fuck him hard.  
> \+ The handler taking advantage of super soldier stamina.  
> Really anything that fits within the prompt of gross creepy handler rationalizing to himself that getting fucked by the Winter Soldier isn't _rape_ , it's _respectful_ , and also getting off really hard on the Soldier's competency in battle and getting reamed by a super soldier.

"Oh my god," Yimei says, her cheeks pink with her third beer, her eyes sparkling with delighted mischief, and Mike buries his burning face in his hands. "Oh my _god_. You want to fuck the Winter Soldier." 

"I don't," he tries. 

"You _do_. You're always like—" She mimics his tone, wistful and admiring and moderately intoxicated, with horrifying accuracy. "'He's so _strong_ and _scary_ and _cool_.' You want to ride him into the sunset."

"I . . . oh god." He doesn't even _like_ this bar, it's full of too-loud college kids and the music sucks and everything is always kind of suspiciously and unpleasantly sticky, but Yimei loves it because she has terrible taste, and so here they are almost every Thursday night, welcoming the weekend with cheap beer and tequila. They'd been new hires together two years ago, which had been worse for him than for her, god bless Secretary Pierce and his _very clear ideas_ about the treatment of women in the workplace, and the thing where everyone's mean to the new kids so they bond in the face of adversity might be blatantly manipulative, but in their case it had totally worked: she's pretty much his best friend. He peeks at her from between his fingers. "I really, really do."

She laughs at him, which is fair, because he is a deeply ridiculous person, like he can own that, and when she stops he's completely unprepared for her to say, "You know, I can probably make that happen." 

He gapes at her a bit. "What?"

"He's supposed to get back from a mission tomorrow evening, and Jenny and I are up. He'll have debrief first, then medical, and then us. I can tell J to take the night off. You can fuck him before I take him to his cell."

"You—" The shot glasses in front of him (both of them) are empty, which suddenly seems a little tragic. "You can't do that!" He hopes he sounds appropriately scandalized, because he is, he _is_ , and not kind of helplessly turned on by the idea. "You take care of him, you're responsible, you're a, a—" He waves his hands, a bit wildly, and Yimei gives him her _Mikey you are such a freak_ look, which she has had ample opportunity to practice and has, he thinks, perfected. "A fiduciary! Come on, it's like a _sacred trust_. You can't just let random people do— _that!"_

She looks kind of sad for a second, and he wants to kick himself. Yimei's on the Soldier's secondary maintenance team, and Mike knows she's pretty attached to him, and doesn't like it when people mess up her work—mostly enemy combatants, of course, but not always or exclusively, if even half the rumors are true. Honestly, Mike can sympathize, because the Soldier's _perfect_ —tactically brilliant, heart-stoppingly brave, faultlessly loyal—and Mike can't imagine what the higher-ups might legitimately need to punish him for, and the idea of beating him or whatever because they _can_ , because he's not allowed to stop them, is just, it's disrespectful. Yimei takes care of the Soldier, yeah, but secondary maintenance is pretty low in the pecking order, it's not like she's got actual power. "Hey," he says, "I didn't—"

"Shush. I know. But _you_ come on. You gonna hurt him? Do anything my team won't like? Seriously?" 

"No!" He wouldn't. Also, Mike's a cryo handler, like he was the kid in the STAND BACK! I'M GOING TO TRY SCIENCE! t-shirt, the Soldier could break him in half. Which, okay, is part of the appeal, like a big part, but the point is that the Soldier's literally a _super soldier_ and Mike wouldn't disrespect him even if he could. Which he really, really couldn't. 

"So, no problem then." 

"But aren't there, like—" He's not seriously considering this, is he? He catches the waitress's eye across the room and lifts one of his empty glasses forlornly, like _can we please apply more alcohol to this situation_ , and she gives him a sympathetic grin and a nod. Okay, so he's seriously considering this. "Security cameras? The whole base is pretty wired."

Yimei rolls her eyes. " _Yeah_ , but so what? No one reviews the tapes unless there's a problem, and even if they do, it's not like you're gonna get in trouble." The sad look flickers across her face again, there and gone. "I promise, no one will care."

* * *

He hears them before he sees them. This whole section's restricted access, Yimei had to buzz him in, and the door to the maintenance suite is open. It's after 9 on a Friday, people have gone home, and he pauses outside in the deserted corridor to listen. "I mean, I don't even know if she dates girls. Lillian—you remember I told you about Lillian?"

The answering voice sends a shiver through him, because—wow, that's the _Soldier_. He doesn't really talk, going into cryo, and when he comes out, of course, he can't. "From accounting."

"Right, from accounting over at 'SHIELD.'" Mike can hear the air quotes. "Well Lillian thinks she doesn't date _anyone_ , like the whole sex thing just isn't her scene, which would be really sad." There's a rustling sound. "Hey, hold still! I'm not done."

"Yimei," the Soldier says, and _oh my god_ , Mike thinks, he knows her name, he actually knows her actual name, her life is so cool. "You know I'm going back to cryo next week. One more mission, and that's it. I'm not going to remember Lillian from accounting, or you, or the hot redhead who may or may not date girls, or—anything else."

There's a little pause. He doesn't say it like he's mad, but Mike feels kind of bad for him anyway. He never really thought about how weird that must be for the Soldier, to forget his maintenance teams and the STRIKE team and _everybody_ , over and over again. 

"Well, so, I'll remind you," Yimei says. "You'll get the full update." Then, raising her voice: "Stop lurking in the hall, Mikey, and get in here."

He stands up a little straighter, which doesn't really help, and steps into the room. The Soldier's in a reclining chair—an ordinary chair, not like the ones from primary maintenance, although the posture is kind of similar—and Yimei is perched on a stool beside him, his big right hand, the flesh one, held delicately in both of hers. After a second, Mike gets it: she's filing his nails. She's already cleaned him up from the mission: his face looks freshly scrubbed, and his hair is loose and smooth and slightly damp. Except—except—and Mike feels his brain trying to short out, because instead of dressing him in his usual soft civilian sleep clothes, the ones he always shows up to cryo in, she's put him _back in his combat gear_ , holy _shit_ , it's like _miles_ of black leather sprawled out indolently in front of him. The goggles are nowhere to be seen, but the lower half of his mask, the muzzle, is resting on a worktable next to Yimei's pink Nalgene and one of the heavy stun sticks that anyone who handles the Soldier is supposed to carry. As if _that_ would do her any good, if the Soldier decided he didn't want his nails done, but Mike's never heard of him freaking out on anyone from secondary maintenance, and Yimei says he likes it, actually, likes being clean and well-groomed. _Can't he, like, do all that stuff himself?_ he'd asked her once, and she'd laughed. _Of course he_ can, _once he's out of cryo long enough. That's not the point. He's a weapon, he has to be_ maintained. _It's a reminder._ He probably considers it his due, Mike thinks, the way Yimei's team fusses over him. _Primary_ maintenance, on the other hand—they get hazard pay. 

The Soldier turns his head to look at him, and Mike feels a thrill race along his spine. There's a dead-eyed calm about him, usually, when he comes in for cryo, an absence, as if he's already disappearing inside himself. He looks nothing like that now. His gaze is alert and hostile, the way it is in the cellphone footage STRIKE isn't supposed to take of him in the field, the little clips people like Mike will pay to copy. It pins Mike's feet to the floor.

Yimei relinquishes the Soldier's hand and pats his arm. "Okay, all done. That's Mike. He's cryo; you'll see him again next week. Right now, the two of you are scheduled for some alone time. I'll come back and get you in an hour or so."

Tension rolls through the Soldier's body, and it's only then that Mike realizes how relaxed he'd been before the intrusion, like a predator asleep in the sun, something lethal momentarily lulled. "Parameters?"

"Recreational use." Mike almost laughs at the way she says it, easy and matter-of-fact, a pitch-perfect parody of the euphemistic Hydra-speak they toss around all day, as if there really were an established shorthand for _this guy wants to climb you like a tree_. Except—the Soldier's eyes flick to the table, then back to Mike, then down, and something complicated happens to his face, the wary intelligence smoothing into blankness. 

"Acknowledged." 

"Hey, no—stay." She reaches toward him again, then seems to think better of it. "You'll like this." No response. "Well, you'll see."

Mike comes closer. The Soldier doesn't watch him do it. " _Recreational use_ , seriously? What does he even think that means?"

Yimei shrugs. "Whatever you want it to." She hops down from her stool, and starts tidying her supplies away. And Mike just kind of stands there, because _wow_ , apparently there's no such thing as parody when it comes to Hydra, but also _whoa_ , like he's heard rumors of disrespectful treatment, sure, but there's _no one_ as deadly as the Winter Soldier, no one as skilled and precise and implacable, and watching him vanish before their eyes at the word _recreation_ is frankly chilling. The Soldier's head is bent, his clean, combed hair hanging in his face, and no wonder Yimei gets protective sometimes, Mike thinks, because the Soldier is _awesome_ in every sense of the word but he's also—he's also—

"Is he, um?" He doesn't even know what he's asking. 

"He's fine." Yimei closes the last cupboard and gives the neatened room a proprietary and professional glance. "Talk to him, he likes that—tell him what you're gonna do, what you want. _When I leave_ ," she adds with mock severity as he opens his mouth, and Mike lets himself laugh, lets the odd tension of the moment go, because the _oh no my delicate sensibilities_ act from Yimei is hilarious, she has like twice as much sex as he does, it would probably make him jealous if he didn't love her and want her to have nice things. She grabs her water bottle from the table, and slides a wall switch to dim the lights a little, flashing him her filthiest smile. "Okay, which is now. Have fun." He grins back, and feels his heart rate pick up. 

She's almost in the doorway when she pauses, and turns to face the room's other occupant. "Soldier, I know you can hear me. Be nice to Mikey, okay? He's my friend." Then she's closing the door behind her, and they're alone.

 _This is really happening_. He takes the few remaining steps, until he's right in front of the Soldier in his chair, and _god_ he's big, Mike's never been so close to him in his battle gear before and the effect is really—imposing. Menacing. Hot as fuck. The lowered gaze is probably meant to signal submission, obedience, but up close it doesn't read that way at all: head down, face carefully neutral, the Soldier looks like a savage thing on a slender leash. 

_Talk to him_. He clears his throat, which gets no reaction. "Soldier. Look at me, please." And oh shit, oh fuck, those cold eyes come up and Mike is staring into the face of Hydra's killer, their singular unanswerable weapon, their Asset. The shock of arousal he feels is tinged with fear, and that makes it _better_ than the fantasy, hotter, because this is real, he's imagined it a hundred times and now it's happening, he's alone with the Soldier and he can have _whatever he wants_ and what he wants is—

"I want you to fuck me." He'd thought it might be hard to say, but it's not, because now that the moment's here he feels the surging heat of a reckless excitement, an immunity to consequence that makes it easy. The Soldier just stares at him, flat and unimpressed, and normally that would make him shy, would feel like skepticism at best and rejection at worse, but what it feels like now is a challenge. He knows what he looks like, sure, short and kind of underfed, nothing like the muscle-bound gods who support the Soldier in the field, but _they're_ not available for the Soldier's use, for his pleasure, and Mike—is. _You'll like this_ , Yimei had said, and Mike might be small and awkward but he respects the _hell_ out of the Soldier and he's going to prove her right. "What Yimei said, about _recreation_ —this, this isn't that." Not that he knows what _that_ is, not really, like given the Soldier's response his imagination honestly fails him, but it's obviously _bad_ and Mike's not here to do anything bad, Mike's here to show his goddamn respect. "I'm gonna—" _In for a fucking penny_ , he thinks. "I'm gonna suck your cock, get down right here on my knees and suck you, make it good, and then when you're nice and wet I'm gonna get up on that chair, sit in your lap and—" Okay, his pants are getting seriously uncomfortable, he needs to be a lot more naked, like, _stat_. He's got condoms and a little bottle of slick in his pocket, and he drops those on the tray that swings out from the arm of the chair, probably for Yimei's grooming supplies, and then he pulls his shirt over his head and slides off his belt and opens his pants and _fuck_ , stripping before that unwavering gaze, stripping while the Soldier is dressed from head to toe in his fucking _armor_ , it makes his throat tighten and his face burn, it makes him so fucking hard. 

Touching the Soldier feels impossible but it's not, not if he gets on his knees first, where—oh god—where he belongs, so he's looking up, reaching up to touch the reinforced black material of the Soldier's pants, getting them open, getting his cock out. He's big _everywhere_ , fuck, of course he is, his cock is thick and heavy in Mike's hand and he's not even hard yet. Mike darts a glance at his face, and _yes_ , the Soldier is watching him, Mike has his attention now. He licks a soft swipe along the Soldier's cock, and presses a kiss to the head, tasting, worshipping, and the Soldier makes a sound low in his throat. Mike freezes, braced for that metal fist to close in his hair, pull him in or push him away, but the Soldier doesn't move, doesn't touch him, and after a moment he lets his lips part. He takes the Soldier's cock in until its silky weight rests on his tongue, and sucks gently, and the Soldier makes another sound, soft and startled, and this time Mike takes it as encouragement. 

It's long minutes before the Soldier begins to harden in his mouth, and Mike's own neglected cock is hot and aching, but he doesn't touch himself, doesn't want to come yet, or wait, better, he's _not allowed_ to touch himself, not allowed to come unless it's with the Soldier's cock inside him, he can beg for it but he doesn't get a choice, doesn't get to take his pleasure unless he's being, fuck, being used—and in the fantasy he wouldn't get to use his hands, either, but that's not practical, because the Soldier's fully hard now and Mike can't take more than half of it, he's not _inexperienced_ but he's spent less time with a dick down his throat than he'd consider ideal, but it's okay, he's doing good, he's making the Soldier feel good.

When he pulls off, the Soldier's eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the padded headrest. Mike's chin is slick with spit, and his jaw aches, and the high wild excitement is pounding in his blood. He needs to get fucked _now_. He reaches up to snag the little bottle, and the Soldier opens his eyes to watch as Mike pours the slick into his own hand, as he reaches behind himself to brush his fingers against his hole. It feels like the stripping did, humiliating and hot, fingering himself open on his knees on the fucking floor, pinned by those ruthless eyes. Not cold anymore, though, not distant. _Stay_ , Yimei had said, and wherever the Soldier had gone inside his own head he's here now, he is _present and fucking accounted for_. Interested. Expectant. 

When Mike climbs into the chair to straddle the Soldier's lap, he is acutely conscious of the picture they make: his pale bare skin against the Soldier's heavy armor, his small form balanced above the bulk of the Soldier's body. The Soldier lifts his hands to Mike's waist and then pauses, the metal palm and the flesh one hovering an inch from his skin, not touching. "You can," Mike says, "yes," and the Soldier grips him carefully, steadies him. He rolls a condom down over the Soldier's cock, and slicks it liberally, and the Soldier groans. Then he's lining them up, sinking down, and it's—fuck, it's so much, it sends sparks racing through him but it's so _much_ , and it's slow, slow, he's panting and mumbling, _god, you're so hot, you're the best thing about this fucking place, they don't see it but I do, I want you to take this, I want you to fucking use me_. The Soldier's hands tighten convulsively, and Mike feels a moment's rush of fear that the Soldier will buck up into him, pull him down, force himself deeper, faster, than Mike can take—but the Soldier is still, the Soldier doesn't hurt him. When he's fully seated, he lets himself gasp, lets himself tremble a little as he tries to adjust. This is, without doubt, the hottest fucking thing that has _ever happened to him_. He goes soft, sometimes, taking a cock in his ass, especially after—but not this time, his dick is flushed and straining against his belly, and he lets himself touch, _finally_ , strokes himself slowly and moans because it is so good, so much, so good. His other hand is braced on the Soldier's chest, and fuck, _fuck_ , he's still wearing his fucking knives in their clever little sheaths, he is a fucking _arsenal_. He can't help the words, he is split open and everything inside is coming out, _I love these, god, the knives, I've seen videos, it's like they're part of you, your claws, your teeth, fuck_. He needs to move, he needs to—and his thighs shake as he pushes himself up, and the Soldier's cock feels just as huge, just as overwhelming sliding out of him as it did pushing in, and oh god, _I like your guns best, though, the way you handle them, I watch the clips and I get so fucking hard, I think about you touching me like that, I think about—_

He finds a rhythm. It's slow, but the drag of the Soldier's cock inside him is _perfect_ , and the Soldier's hands on his hips burn hot and cold, searing him, claiming him. The Soldier risks a small movement, never taking his eyes from Mike's face, and Mike shivers with pleasure and tosses his head back and says, "Do it, do it, _fuck_ , I want it—" And the Soldier braces him and thrusts shallowly into him, and Mike _wails_ , because yes, _yes_. He bounces on the Soldier's cock, shameless, wanton, and he's going to come, as the Soldier's intent look softens into something dazed, he's going to come from this, as the Soldier grips him harder, as the Soldier starts to fuck him in earnest, less careful, less controlled, he's going to—

The Soldier moves him like he weighs nothing. Lifts him, shoves him, sends him stumbling to the floor—and catches him, the metal hand unforgiving around his wrist. Then the Soldier is out of the chair, and he's dragging Mike across the room, deliberate, unhurried, irresistible. They reach the table and the Soldier clears it with a single careless swipe, sending the muzzle flying, the stun stick clattering, and then he's bending Mike over it, one hand between his shoulder blades, and pushing back into him. Mike gasps, reeling, because there's no easing into it this time, the Soldier has him pinned, and the Soldier thrusts deep, hard. And okay, ow, _ow_ , and Mike's hands close on nothing, and adrenaline races through him because this is—

he doesn't think about it, mostly, but—

this is too much like—

it was two years ago and it was just hazing anyway but they'd been so much stronger than him and it had _hurt_ and he feels small and helpless like that now under the Soldier's hard body and he squeezes his eyes shut and his breath comes fast and—

"Easy." The Soldier's warm hand strokes firmly down his shuddering back, the weight of it grounding him. Again. The Soldier's voice should be a growl, Mike thinks, but it's not—it's rough, a little hoarse, but clear. And the Soldier's not letting him up, not pulling out, but he's not moving, either. "Easy, kid." He's waiting, Mike realizes. He's waiting for Mike to tap out, if he's going to. 

And, just— _fuck_ no. This is fucking hot, this is what he fucking wants, to be taken, to be used, this is the fucking _fantasy_ come to life and he's not going to call it off just because—just because—and the Soldier's touch steadies him, and he says _yes_ and he says _fuck me_ and he arches up under the Soldier's hands and the Soldier shoves him back down. The Soldier fucks him, relentless, remorseless, he fucks like he fights, and it's so much, it's too much, it's _perfect_ , and when the cool metal of the Soldier's hand closes around his cock Mike comes so hard he feels obliterated, laid waste. 

The Soldier's not done, though. He makes an inquiring sound, and Mike can barely lift his head but he nods, he says _more_. He's too sensitive for this, he can't take it, but he _will_ take it because the Soldier is going to fuck him until he comes, _can_ and _can't_ don't matter, the Soldier is Hydra's incomparable warrior and Mike is an offering. He's sore, raw, the Soldier can't help hurting him now, and it's still perfect. 

When the Soldier comes, he drops his head to the back of Mike's neck, and for a long minute, he doesn't move. His breath in Mike's ear is ragged, and Mike can feel the sweat on his cheek. The Soldier rests like that, his face pressed to Mike's bare skin. And Mike feels a wave of exhausted, delirious contentment, and something like affection, and he smiles a little to himself, because the gesture is so unguarded, so unselfconsciously fucking sweet, it's almost human.


End file.
